Quiet When I'm Coming Home
by rycewritestrash
Summary: Bellamy announces to Russell that he's marrying Clarke with absolutely zero input from the bride-to-be. (Series/Season 6 - Canon Divergence - Mild Angst - Light Fluff - Lots of Feelings)


When Russell politely suggests that Clarke marry into one of the royal families to bind their new alliance (mutual co-existence), her first instinct is to take the steak knife, clenched in her sweaty palm and slice it into the nearest carotid artery she can find. Then leave him to bleed out on the table for his wife and satanic daughter to find his frigid corpse in their fine dining room, after its urinated in defecated itself all over their fancy Egyptian rugs.

It's just a thought.

Bellamy must have something else in mind, reaching over to squeeze her hand, in what would be a calming gesture, if she weren't still reeling from his willingness to make peace with Lightbournes after her death.

A peace that was, of course, temporarily postponed after discovering that she was in fact still alive. At least until him and Russell (who took much less convincing than she would believe) conspired to sedate Josephine and put her in a new willing nightblood host (thanks to Abby), in return for Clarke not slaughtering them all upon her return.

Not that it's not tempting.

They may see her survival as some twisted gift, but she still remembers dying.

Now she's afraid the consequences of living will be far worse.

_I bear it so they don't have to._

She tries jerking her hand away, rejecting whatever comfort Bellamy thinks he's offering, before agreeing to give her up again as the sacrificial lamb.

His hold tightens, prying her fingers off the knife and into his lap, threading them together with his own. Her nails dig into his thigh where she stabbed him once. Some sick part of her hopes it still stings.

Nothing could compare to the pain of what she's about to do.

"That wasn't a part of the deal," Bellamy says, steady.

"I know," Russell says neatly folding the dirty napkin on the table to cover up for his nerves. "I am making this last request in an effort to relieve the tension between our people. I'm afraid their fear of retaliation against what we've-what I've done will end with one of ours taking the first action to incite a war none of us want to finish. If they see that Clarke is willing to unite with us by blood, they may be more compliant in trusting your part in our agreement, not to interfere with our way of life."

There's a long pause, where neither of them can find the words to speak.

"She will get to choose who her partner will be, of course," he adds, like that's some kind of consolation prize.

"It's a shame the doctor's dead," Clarke says, dryly.

Bellamy kicks her ankle in retaliation. She glowers at him, but he refuses to drop his staring contest with Russell.

"It's not our responsibility to help you control your people. We owe you nothing. _Clarke_ owes you nothing."

Russell's cool composure slips with a sigh. "I'm afraid Josephine has already started the rumor that an arranged marriage will take place."

"So, it was her idea," Bellamy summarizes.

_Of course it was_, Clarke mutters under her breath. Who better than the girl that stole her body to be eager to sell it off to another?

"It's good to know who's actually in charge now that you've given that bitch daughter of yours a new soul to eat," he spits.

Clarke ducks her head, hiding her surprised cough behind a gulp of wine.

There's a long pause before Russell's throat clears and he continues, ignoring Bellamy's outburst in favor of turning his attention on her instead.

"In exchange, we'd grant you and a select few of your choosing," his eyes flicker between hers and Bellamy's, "to live multiple lifetimes . . . as we do."

Bellamy stills beside her. "How dare-"

"You couldn't possibly believe I'd ever do to someone what you did to me," she snaps.

"It won't be like that," Russell says, so gently, it physically pains her to look at him. He still thinks he's better than them. _The good guy_.

Bellamy snarls. "Murder, you mean."

"They know what they're agreeing to," Russell argues.

"I don't care how many people you've brainwashed into thinking they want it! I know what _it _feels like." She chokes, struggling to keep her voice even. "Our pain is the same regardless of choice. I will not be a part of coercing the innocent into cutting their lives in half only to extend one as undeserving as mine."

"_Princess_." He breathes out, tugging her close. His palm unlatches for hers, fingertips brushing across the back of her neck.

Her skin prickles, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. She tries not to remember the last time his hands were around her throat.

"This apology dinner is over," she manages, scowling at Russell. "As is this conversation."

"Wait, please-" Russell tries.

"It's no use," Bellamy interrupts, throwing Clarke a look she can't decipher, before it's too late.

"She's already promised to someone."

"Oh!" Russell exclaims, failing to hide the shock in his voice.

_I'm what_, she mouths at Bellamy, just as Russell bluntly inquires. "To whom, may I ask?"

"Me."

* * *

"What. The. Fuck. Bell-a-my." She hisses, emphasizing each syllable with a sharp poke to his chest.

"Sorry," he says, back away from her, not sounding sorry at all. "We didn't exactly have time to come up with a plan _together_, did we?"

"And this was the best you could come up with!" she hollers, throwing her hands in the air. "There's no way he's going to buy into something this ridiculous!" she bites out, fumbling with her boots, uncaring about how inept she looks hopping around on one foot.

"Come here." He sighs, rubbing a palm over his face, like _he's_ the one that finds _her_ exhausting.

The nerve of him.

Before she can protest, he's dragging her over to the nearest chair, forcing her to sit, kneeling down to pull the strings loose. She startles once again at his proximity, a heat burning her cheeks of which she hopes he mistakes as anger.

"And how exactly do you think the rest of your people will react to this news?"

He grunts. "I don't know, princess, but I have a feeling your about to tell me."

She huffs, glaring at the top of his head as he tugs off one boot and then the other.

"Jordan quite literally couldn't keep a secret if our lives depended on it, don't get me started on our favorite _frenemy_, Murphy-and what about Echo?! How is she going to feel about her boyfriend signing himself off to make a wife out of another woman?"

It takes him a second to lift his gaze from her lips after she spits out wife. Clarke files this observation away to over analyze later, against her better judgment.

"Frenemy?" he says after a few agonizing moments of silence. "I think you're letting the hell beast that possessed you influence your vocabulary a little too much these days."

She bristles.

"That's what you're focusing on right now? Seriously?"

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, as he gets up to place her boots by the door.

"Bellamy," Clarke prompts.

He turns to face her, palms shoved in his pockets and pinched brow. "Echo and I-we're not really a thing anymore."

"You're not-I mean-" Her mouth opens and closes. "What kind of _not a thing_ are you, or aren't you?"

His eyes narrow, like he's trying to get a read on her. She thoroughly inspects her nails in such a very _un-Clarke-like_ manner, she has to wonder if maybe he has a point about Josephine.

"We broke up," he says, casual. _Too_ casual.

"When?" she asks before she can stop the thought from slipping out. She bites her cheek on the _why._

"Before you came back," he admits.

She swallows. "After I died?"

His eyes dart away. "After we _thought_ you died, Clarke."

_Fuck._

She definitely won't be sleeping tonight, not with all the followup questions she's afraid to ask dancing around in her brain.

"So . . ." Bellamy says, taking her silence as a cue to continue. "She won't be a problem, in terms of believability that is."

"What about the rest of them?" she questions.

"_Us_, Clarke. You're not alone anymore."

"Right," she says, not bothering to hide the edge in her tone.

He shakes his head, moving to take the seat across from her. "Our people won't be a problem."

She doesn't buy it.

His lips press together, chin resting on her thumbs, elbows on his knees. "You didn't see what I was like when we lost you."

"Which time?" she counters, because she's an asshole.

His back straightens, the veins in his neck throbbing when his jaw tenses.

She cocks her head, challenging him.

He doesn't take the bait.

"Trust me," he says, but there's a hitch in his voice, like he's _asking _after all this time, like she ever really stopped. "It's not going to take much convincing for them to jump to less than-" he pauses, searching for the right word, ". . ._ platonic_ conclusions," he settles on.

She barely conceals her poorly timed snort.

"What's so funny?" he snaps.

"You mean other than the fact the you made a deal with my murders after my death? And how now you expect them to think-_what exactly_? That you were in love with me? Asked me to marry you?"

"Present tense," he responds curt, tensing his jaw. "Stop talking like you're not here anymore."

She turns away, unable to swallow the lump in her throat, too tired to even try. A tightness fills her lungs that makes it hard to breath on a good day. On the bad days, sometimes she just stops completely. Holding her breath, counting down the seconds as they turn to minutes, curious to see how long it would take before she'd pass out-how long Bellamy would have had to have his fists clenched around her throat to kill her before anyone else got the chance.

"I don't know how much of me still is." The confession slips past her tongue without her permission. She flushes all at once under the widening of his stare.

He fidgets in his seat, like it's a struggle to stay put.

She almost wishes he wouldn't.

"I know what's like to feel like you've lost yourself, Clarke," he says, soft, leaning forward. "But somehow . . . " He hesitates. "We've always managed to find our way back home."

She blinks up at him through her lashes, briefly glancing around the room where at least half the paintings still belong to Josephine's.

She hasn't gotten around to burning them yet.

"Home looks a lot different these days," she muses.

He doesn't miss a beat.

"Really?" he counters, slight smile twisting his lips, holding her stare. "It's always looked the same to me."


End file.
